


The Thread that Pulls it All Apart

by HugeAlienPie



Series: The Sweater Bet [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Christmas, College Student Stiles, Deputy Derek, First Dates, Future Fic, Multi, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look, Stiles accepts that his relationship with Derek is...weird. But it works, because it has rules. Rules about lines they do not cross. And that's fine by Stiles. Really. If he's wondered, from time to time, what it'd be like to kiss Derek, or get his hands on Derek's dick, or come home to Derek at the end of a long day, that's his overactive imagination hard at work; nothing other people should concern themselves with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thread that Pulls it All Apart

The couch's siren song beckons, but Stiles loads the roasting pan into the dishwasher, finding something deeply satisfying in washing the Thanksgiving dishes _on_ Thanksgiving so he can enjoy his food coma in guilt-free comfort.

Clean-up's easy this year, since it was a small crowd, the promise of an all-pack Christmas freeing everyone to fulfill other obligations on Thanksgiving. An ancient relative of Victoria Argent's, from the family's nonhunting branch, had guilted Chris into bringing Allison to her retirement community in Arizona, and Allison agreed on the condition that Isaac go with them. How she got Chris and Isaac to agree, Stiles will never know.

Kira's internship is keeping her at college over the break. Jackson and Aiden are at Lydia's, shielding her from her squabbling parents and providing passive-aggressive entertainment in the bargain. Ethan's in Hawaii with Danny's family. So it was just Hales, McCalls, and Stilinskis around the table.

For the best, really. It's been three years, and Stiles still sometimes looks at Ethan and Aiden and sees nothing but Erica and Boyd. He imagines it's ten times worse for Derek and Isaac. Having the twins in the pack is hard enough on normal days, and holiday stress sharpens all hurts. The thing is, Ethan's working _so hard_ to atone for what he did in the alpha pack, and, painful as it is, Stiles respects that. He wishes Aiden would do the same, but for now they're...enduring him, for Ethan and Danny's sakes, as they'd once endured Peter for Derek's.

Stiles starts the dishwasher and listens to its efficient swishing with a sort of fondness. Ah, modern conveniences. Halfway to the living room, he realizes he has a dish towel hooked in his belt loop; he pulls it free and swings it as he leaves the kitchen. "That might've been the easiest Thanksgiving clean-up ever," he tells his dad, who's standing beside the couch with something pressed to his face. "For primeval supernatural beasts, they sure are tidy." Dad drops the whatever-it-is--fabric of some sort--onto the couch, and Stiles' mouth falls open as his mind replays the scene. "Dad, were you sniffing that?" His eyes widen with alarm, and he rushes forward, grabbing Dad's arm. "Dad! You and Scott were in the basement an awfully long time. Did he turn you? Are you a werewolf now?"

Dad has a _hilarious_ bitchface. "Stiles," he says, "stop. I'm not a-- _really_?"

Stiles shrugs. Okay, fine, Dad's not a werewolf. But someday he _will_ find out what happened in that basement. "Fine, but you can't suss out who it belongs to without the wolfy super-sniffer."

To Stiles' eternal shock, Dad blushes. "It's--" He clears his throat. "I know whose it is."

"Yeah?" Stiles touches the shawl. It's soft and sort of...rosy. His gaze snaps up to Dad's. "It's Melissa's, isn't it?" The deduction's not that impressive. There were only two women here today, and Cora wouldn't wear anything this delicate. Stiles' hands clasp together in front of his mouth, and he bounces on the balls of his feet. "It is! You were _sniffing_ Melissa's shawl. Oh my god, Dad, is this--is it on? Is it gonna happen?" He pinwheels his arms. "The thing! The thing Scott and I have been hoping for since we were 14--is one of you finally _doing something_ about it?"

"There's no--Stiles!" Dad scowls and swats Stiles' hand down. Ooh, that towel _was_ kinda close to his face, wasn't it? "She left a shawl here. That's all. There is no _thing_."

Stiles' eyes narrow. "Why not? And fair warning: if you say 'It's complicated,' I'll hit you in your lying mouth with this towel."

"Stiles!" Dad sighs and rubs his eyes. He looks defeated. Disappointed. "It _is_ complicated."

Not as far as Stiles can see, it's not. "Do you like her?" he demands.

Dad waves a hand at the shawl, whatever that means. "Yeah."

"And she likes you. What's the problem?"

"I'm not sure she does," Dad says quietly.

Stiles stares. Dad can't be _that_ oblivious, can he? Oh, god, he _is_. A deeply wounded sound escapes Stiles' mouth as he pulls his phone from his pocket. "Bro," he says the instant Scott answers, "you're on speaker."

"Uh, okay," Scott says easily. "Hi, Derek."

"What?" Stiles squawks, blushing furiously. Because, seriously, Scott, _what_?!? Why would it be Derek? "Why would you-- _no_ , it's not Derek. Jeez, Scott. No, listen, I need you to tell me about the churros again."

It's the best story, seriously. It's the story they'll tell their kids about how Grandpa Noah and Grandma Melissa got together. "Thanks, dude!" Stiles says at the end, still chuckling. "See you at Lydia's stupid Jane Austen marathon tomorrow." He ends the call and stares at Dad, tapping his phone against his hand. "So. There's that. If she's not on this train, she's at the station." Dad snorts, unbelieving. Stiles moves closer to Dad and puts a hand on his arm, holding his gaze. He _needs_ his dad to understand this, to believe it. "The place in our hearts where Mom goes will always be empty, and that'll always suck. But we can't deny ourselves happiness forever."

A parade of complicated expressions crosses Dad's face. Grief, for sure. Surprise, maybe, that Stiles has such sage advice to give. Hope--or maybe that's wishful thinking on Stiles' part. Then he smiles. Stiles...isn't sure he likes that smile. "All right," Dad says, "I will if you will."

"I--y-- _what_?!?" Stiles' jaw hangs open for a minute, then he snaps it shut with a determined click. He has no idea what the man's talking about. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Dad's eyes narrow knowingly. "Stiles. I am your father _and_ the sheriff. You think I haven't noticed you and Derek dancing around each other for the last year? So, fine: I'll ask Melissa out if you ask Derek."

Oh. Oh _shit._ "Dad," Stiles protests, genuine panic in his voice, "We're not-- _he's_ not--" Look, Stiles accepts that his relationship with Derek is...weird. Outside observers might construe a lot of their interactions as flirting. Sometimes they look at each other and just...keep looking, longer than is polite. But it works, because it has _rules_. Rules about lines they do not cross. And that's fine by Stiles. Really. If he's wondered, from time to time, what it'd be like to kiss Derek, or get his hands on Derek's dick, or come home to Derek at the end of a long day, that's his overactive imagination hard at work; nothing other people should concern themselves with.

Only...he _has_ wondered about those things. A lot. More and more over the past year, since he's started catching Derek looking at him like he's wondering the same things. "Oh my _god_ , you're a jerk," he mutters. He shifts from foot to foot, gaze toward the floor, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Then he inhales and squares his shoulders. He meets Dad's gaze and sticks out his hand. Fine. It's time to die like a man. "Deal."

Dad grins and shakes. His smile softens as he looks at Stiles, who has three seconds to wonder what Dad sees when he looks at him before he's wrapping his other hand around Stiles'. "Thank you," he says.

Stiles ducks his head but nods. He's gonna regret this so much, but it'll be worth it if something good happens for Dad and Melissa. He squeezes Dad's hand and then withdraws his own. He trudges toward the stairs feeling like his feet are made of lead. "I'm gonna--ugh. I'm going to my room to plan how to ask out Derek Hale. And my subsequent funeral. Jerk."

He's almost to the stairs, Dad's laugh taunting him from behind the couch, when Dad calls, "Hey, Stiles?" Stiles pauses and looks back. "Raise the stakes a little?"

Stiles' answering grin is wicked. This can be nothing but awesome. "Yeah?"

"Anyone who hasn't made his move by Christmas Eve Day has to go to Mrs. Milligan's holiday sing _and_ wear whatever ugly sweater she gives him all Christmas Day."

Stiles' eyes widen in surprise and respect. "You are a _devil_ ," he says. "I accept. Bring it, old man." He's pretty sure Dad glares at him all the way up. The scheming bastard deserves it.

*

A plan does not emerge. A plan _continues_ not to emerge, despite running into Derek _three more times_ before he goes back to Reed. (Not that the time the asshole pulled him over for a busted tail light was a good time to ask him out--though he deposited the memory of Derek in uniform, half leaning into the Jeep and not trying to hide his laughter as he said, "I'll let you off with a warning this time" directly into the spank bank.)

Now Stiles flops across his narrow dorm bed in his narrow dorm room, scowling at his ceiling and bemoaning cruel fate. "Monty, where's my game?" he demands. His roommate's eyes flick to the PS4 controllers tucked beside the TV. Stiles huffs. "My _game,_ " he says, flailing his hands around. "My mojo. My _play._ "

Two skeptical black eyebrows lift from where Monty's sitting on his own bed with an Anthro textbook in his lap. "Trouble getting a date?" Monty asks. " _You_?"

"Not 'a' date," Stiles says, his whole body flopping in an attempt to convey the magnitude of this undertaking. " _The_ date. I’m coming up empty, man. The Stilinski Well of Wooing has run dry." He hears a scoff and glares at Monty. "You seem unmoved by my plight. I am detecting lack of movement." Monty shrugs and turns back to his reading. Stiles scowls extra-hard at a long crack in the ceiling directly above his head. Monty's impending marriage was _arranged by his parents when he was eight_ ; what does he know?

High school was unkind to Stiles, relationship-wise. He'd avoided graduating a virgin by the grace of the divine Lydia Martin, who'd taken a chance on him during the sweltering and unforgettable summer between junior and senior years, before they realized they worked far better as friends than a couple. Otherwise, high school had been a haze of AP classes, supernatural nightmares, and not getting laid.

But by the end of his first month at Reed, surrounded by people with no preconceived notions of who Stiles Stilinski was, all these switches in him had flipped, and he'd become the kind of person who succeeds at sex and relationships. He's had one fairly serious girlfriend, one _terrifyingly_ serious boyfriend, and a handful of flings and hookups in any number of gender combinations. But.

"This is different," he tells Monty. "This is _Derek_."

Monty leans forward, shoving his glasses up his nose with the back of his finger. Monty was Stiles' roommate last year, too; he knows what that name means. "You need a plan," Monty announces, tossing his book to the foot of his bed and flinging himself into Stiles' desk chair, knuckles cracking as he puts on his _this is serious shit_ face.

Stiles grins and sits up. He has the _best_ friends.

*

Monty's plan is elegant and amazing and would be _perfect_ if Stiles had Bruce Wayne levels of money and leisure time. Stiles is jealous of Monty's fiancée, if that's the kind of husband he's going to be.

The process makes Stiles think he needs the _opposite_ of a plan. Or, anyway, that's how he justifies his actions late Monday morning, drunk on exhaustion from the three-hour nightmare that was his psychopathology final, when he stops dead in the middle of the lobby, pulls his phone from his pocket, and writes, _Back in BH Friday._ The reply comes almost immediately.

 **Deputy Dawg:** Want to do something?

_Just sleep for like a thousand hours._

_Working Saturday night?_

**Deputy Dawg:** No. Off at 3.

_Let's go out._

He stabs "SEND" viciously.

 **Deputy Dawg:** OK. Who else should I call?

Stiles takes the deepest breath of his life to stave off the impending panic attack and replies, _I thought, maybe, just you and me?_

He waits. And waits. A senior he recognizes from the Day of Silence rally bumps him gently with her shoulder and steers him toward a circle of chairs out of the flow of traffic. He's lowering himself into one when his phone rings. "Derek?"

"Stiles, do you mean--" Stiles pictures Derek's mouth opening and closing around the word he can't bring himself to say, imagines the desperation and confusion in his expression.

"Like a date," Stiles says, eyes squeezed shut. "Yeah."

The silence on Derek's end of the call stretches thickly, so Stiles does what he does best: fills it. "Or, not. Yeah, hah hah, definitely not. I mean, seriously, a date. Psh."  


"Stiles." Derek's voice is tense but...weirdly gentle. "Shut up for two seconds and let me bask."

"Bask," Stiles says stupidly.

"Yes."

"You're...basking. Because I asked you out."

"Yes."

"So...that's a yes? To the date?"

" _Yes_ , Stiles," Derek huffs.

Despite his frayed nerves, Stiles grins. "Basking's over, isn't it?"

"Totally over," Derek says.

"Okay. Yeah, okay. I'm gonna hang up now, before I lose my mind or something. I'll, um--later, okay?"

"Yeah."

Stiles hangs up, taking a moment to celebrate that his hands don't shake. Then he _sprints_ to his dorm. He flings himself face-down on his bed, backpack still on his back, and screams into his pillow until the guy next door comes over to ask if he's okay.

He's not sure how to answer.

*

Stiles arrives at Derek's door at 7:43 on Saturday evening. He spent three and a half minutes in the Jeep working up the nerve to walk up to the house. Every step felt like a mile-long march through a war zone. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, and he shakes like he's climbed a hundred stories, not a porch with three steps.

Derek yanks the door open before Stiles can knock. Stiles has 1.3 seconds of relief that Derek looks equally freaked-out before he takes in Derek's outfit. The air whooshes out of his body, and he clamps his mouth shut before he drools on everything.

Stiles acknowledges that his instruction to "look nice" wasn't the clearest direction he could've given. Derek, of course, has risen to the challenge--and blasted past it. The dark green of his dress shirt contrasts brilliantly against the pale green in his eyes, and the light gray vest (vest!) and charcoal gray slacks make everything look like an ensemble, instead of random pieces thrown together because they look the least ridiculous. And, seriously, if what those pants do to Derek's legs isn't illegal, they're at least going to incite Stiles to do something illegal _to_ him. "Uh," Stiles says eloquently. "Hi."

Derek swallows, his gaze flicking down Stiles' body before returning to his eyes, looking equal parts lustful and terrified. Which Stiles doesn't get. Yeah, the royal blue cashmere V-neck with the blue-striped button-down and black dress pants show off his assets more than usual, but if they're comparing assets, well... _Derek_. "Hi," Derek says, and his voice sounds scratchy, like he hasn't been using it much.

"You want to, um..." Stiles gestures toward the Jeep.

"Yeah, let me--" Derek turns to grab his keys, which answers Stiles' question about whether the rear view is as life-ruining as the front (answer: **No. It's worse.** ). Stiles flees down the stairs to escape the madness.

The conversation flows as Stiles drives to the restaurant. End-of-semester overload kept them from all but superficial text exchanges; they haven't _really_ talked since Thanksgiving. Stiles regales Derek with Monty's latest over-the-top romantic gesture toward his fiancée, and Derek updates Stiles on crimefighting efforts magical and mundane. It's good. It's comfortable. Stiles think he's going to get through the night without vibrating out of his skin.

But the instant they're seated, a profound distance crackles between them, like they've been dropped into glass cases. Stiles knows he's overthinking _everything_. Is this the right fork? Has he ordered something that'll stick in his teeth? How déclassé is it to come to a restaurant this upscale and drink only water? Overcome by nerves, Stiles' attempts at conversation crash and burn, and Derek gives up bringing up new topics before they've finished their appetizers.

When Derek sets down his wine glass (wine!) and leans forward with a world-weary sigh, Stiles is as relieved as he is defeated. It's early still; if Derek calls off the date now, Stiles can drop him off and have time to wallow in an episode of _Walking Dead_ and that pint of Americone Dream Dad thinks he's hidden so well. "Stiles," Derek says, "why are we here?"

Stiles carefully chews and swallows. "Wow," he says, "Existentialism. My Sartre's rusty, but I'm pretty sure the--"

"Stiles," Derek says, commandingly, and makes a small but sweeping hand gesture indicating the restaurant. "Why are we _here_?"

"Uh, it's a new place I haven't been to but is getting good reviews and seemed like a good special-occasion spot? And I thought, if ever there were a special occasion..."

"It already _was_ special, because it was _you_. You never have to pretend to be someone you're not to impress me."

Derek's eyes glitter, and Stiles recognizes the compliment. The implication still pisses him off. "You think I'm pretending? Because, what, the menu doesn't have curly fries? Fuck you, dude."

"No!" To his credit, Derek looks appalled by the suggestion. "I didn't mean--"

"I'm not swearing off burgers or replacing all my t-shirts with cashmere sweaters. I'm the same immature, hyperactive asshole as before. But it's not sacrificing my identity to, every now and then, try something outside my comfort zone because it makes you happy." He slides his hand across the table and closes it around Derek's. "'Cause you still don't have enough happy in your life." He ducks his head and stares at Derek until Derek grudgingly meets his gaze. His smile is uncertain, but it's there, and Stiles takes it as a victory.

"All right," Derek says, turning his hand over to interlace his fingers with Stiles'. They eat in more companionable silence for a minute, and then Derek says, "Wide Open Sky's open 'til ten tonight. We could go after dinner. I'll catch up on my pull list, and we'll have that Marvel vs. DC argument I've been avoiding for the past three years."

Stiles' mouth hangs open. He yanks Derek's hand, pulling it and the man attached to it across the table toward him. "I am going to blow you _so hard_ ," he announces. There's scandalized muttering from the table next to them, and Derek's scowl is so deep you could lose small children in it, but he's blushing to the tips of his ridiculous ears and fighting a grin. "No, wait," Stiles says, jabbing his fork at Derek. "You have a _pull list_? I have never been more attracted to you than I am at this moment."

"Good," Derek says, squeezing Stiles' hand before taking back his own to pick up his knife. "Eat your steak; I've been eyeing the chilled raspberry soup all night."

After three years of buildup, Stiles and Derek's Marvel vs. DC argument goes like this: Stiles spends the drive from the restaurant to the comic shop pouring out bullet points arguing the superiority of DC's characters, especially, of course, Batman. Derek listens until Stiles parks. Then he shrugs and says, "Okay. But I don't see how a queer man whose best friend is a person of color and whose pack includes some of the strongest women I've had the privilege to know can stick up for DC." Then he gets out of the Jeep without waiting for a rebuttal. Stiles stares at his retreating back for ten gobsmacked seconds before muttering, "Holy fuck, I hate you" and following a laughing Derek into the store.

Derek's pull list is Marvel-heavy but also has titles Stiles has never heard of. Hell, it has _publishers_ he's never heard of. He follows Derek like a lovesick gosling, not bothering to look for anything for himself, content to spend his time unraveling the mysteries of Derek Hale, sexy closet nerd.

Stiles does not blow Derek that night. Within five minutes of walking through Derek's door, Stiles is slumped against it, knees wobbling, while Derek sucks his cock with a master's precision. Then Stiles is sprawling across the bed, discovering that, yes, a good rim job (and Stiles has been assured he gives _very good_ rim jobs) can make Derek come so hard he blacks out without anyone touching his dick. Then they're sleeping, a mass of limbs and torsos so entangled it's not a question of big spoons and little spoons but of _what did you kinky fuckers do to my cutlery drawer_? But Stiles sinks to his knees the next morning in the shower, and he usually _hates_ giving head in the shower, but Derek plants his hands on slick tile and curls his broad back over Stiles like a canopy. Stiles can't remember when he last felt so _protected,_ so _cared for_ , and the clench in his heart isn't unexpected.

*

Stiles leans half on the kitchen counter and half on Derek, chasing the last blue marshmallow around his bowl. "Hey," he says, "when are you and Dad on together next?"

Derek eyes him suspiciously. "Tomorrow. Why?"

"You have to tell him," Stiles says. "About our date." Derek's eyes widen over the rim of his orange juice glass. "Tell him it was...magical." A broad smile curves Stiles' lips. "Yeah. Tell him it was the most magical night of your life."

"Stiles." Derek sets down his glass and turns, crowding into Stiles' space. "What did you do?"

Stiles scowls and puts his bowl on the counter. "Why do you assume I did something?"

Derek's hands settle on Stiles' hips. "Because I've met you?"

"Asshole," Stiles says happily and tilts his head to let Derek nuzzle his neck. "No, it'll be great, I swear. Oh! And then tell him it's his move."

"Move?" Derek sucks behind Stiles' earlobe, shooting fire into Stiles' every nerve ending.

"Y-yeah," Stiles gasps.

Derek pulls back, staring into Stiles' eyes. "I was a model employee just last week."

Stiles beams at him. "Yup. Then you slept with the boss' son." His hands drag up and down Derek's arms, curling at the bottom to trail fingers across Derek's wrists. "So tell him, 'Your move, old man.' It'll be _genius_."

"Stiles," Derek says huskily, swiping his thumbs across Stiles' hipbones where they jut above a low-slung pair of Derek's flannel pajama pants, "have you and your father been _betting_ on us?"

Oh, shit. _Stiles,_ he thinks, _you gotta **think** before you open your mouth_. "No! No way. We were absolutely not exactly betting."

Derek moves away, leaning against the refrigerator with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. Stiles sulks at the loss of contact and caves. He tells Derek about Thanksgiving, and the deal he and Dad made, and by the end Derek no longer looks furious, but he's still peeved. Stiles predicts retribution.

Stiles leaves around lunchtime. "Scott and Isaac got back yesterday. Time for our end-of-semester _Dr Who_ marathon. It's a longstanding tradition."

"This was your _third_ semester," Derek points out. "How can any tradition be longstanding?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Haters gonna hate," he says sadly. Derek laughs and shoves his face away. "Hey," Stiles says as he ties his shoes, "thanks for the cereal. I know you hate Lucky Charms." Derek mutters a suspiciously shifty "You're welcome." Stiles looks up, catches Derek blushing and looking away. "Wait a minute," Stiles says, "you _hate_ Lucky Charms. Derek Hale, did you buy that cereal this week assuming I would spend the night?"

"Not _assuming_ ," Derek grits out, gaze fixed on the wall to Stiles' left. " _Hoping_."

And, yeah, it's adorable, how embarrassed Derek looks, but Stiles is Stiles, so he doesn't swallow the delighted laugh that bubbles up. "Whatever, Cockywolf. You just lost any moral high ground you had about Dad and me. Deliver my message tomorrow or else!"

Derek's eyebrow lifts, and his lips twitch. "Or else what?"

"Or else no more sex for you, buddy!"

The lips twitch further. "I give you one day. Less if I wear those pants again."

"Ah-hah!" Stiles jabs his finger into Derek's chest. "I _knew_ you did that on purpose."

"It was our first date, Stiles," Derek says, grabbing the offending hand, "of course I did." He uses his grip on Stiles' wrist to haul him in for a kiss that lingers. "Call me later?"

"Dude," Stiles murmurs, "I'm gonna text you so much you'll be sick of me."

"Already am," Derek deadpans, and his laugh follows Stiles to the Jeep as he assigns Derek increasingly creative and profane nicknames.

*

Dad works until three on Christmas morning and sleeps 'til 11, so the Stilinskis, grudgingly clad in the sweaters Melissa and Derek inflicted on them, arrive last to the pack gathering. That's fine by Stiles; it gives him an appreciative audience when he grabs Derek, lands a resounding kiss on his lips, and slaps a Burger King crown on his head. "All hail the Birthday King!" Stiles crows, and promptly dissolves into a gooey blob of emotions at Derek's small, surprised smile, like he can't believe anyone remembered his birthday. That smile makes him _need_ to kiss Derek again, so he does, long and deep and a little dirty, ignoring cat-calls and wolf-whistles and Dad's frustrated groan, until Isaac shoulder-checks him and says he can pin Derek to the appliances later, but right now he needs at the cranberries.

Before they separate, Stiles presses a small, flat package against Derek's chest. "Your birthday present," he murmurs. "Wait 'til you're alone to open it."

After they've eaten the cranberries--and every other scrap of food on the West Coast--Stiles flings himself onto the window seat with a groan of ultimate suffering. Derek snorts and shoves his legs until he moves just enough for Derek to slide in under them, arranging Stiles across his lap in a Renaissance-worthy pieta.

"I am dead," Stiles declares dramatically, flopping against Derek's chest. "I have been slain in valiant battle against Christmas dinner, and I go now to Valhalla to greet my warrior kin."

Derek tsks and shakes his head. "You ate _three pieces_ of pie."

Stiles moans. His insides are about to spill out of his _pores_ and become outsides. "That pie was a thing of beauty, and Allison is a radiant goddess, and the last piece didn't deserve to be lonely."

Derek stares like he's never seen Stiles before and doesn't understand how they came to be sitting together. Then he sighs and wraps his arms around Stiles, pressing his lips to Stiles' temple. Whatever sweet nothings are about to pour into Stiles' ear vanish as Derek freezes, head whipping around to stare at Stiles' dad with a look of stunned betrayal.

"Derek?" Stiles asks. "What's wrong?" Derek just keeps giving Dad that gut-punched look, and Stiles follows his gaze in time to see Melissa smack Dad's arm. Stiles doesn't know what Dad's response is, but Derek relaxes, and the other werewolves burst into incredulous laughter. "What?" Stiles demands, shaking Derek's arm. "Derek, what happened? Derek, come _onnnn_."

Derek shakes his head and cradles Stiles' jaw, drawing him in for a kiss. Stiles huffs against his mouth. If Derek thinks Stiles will abandon his interrogation just because Derek does...oh, dear god, _that thing_ with his tongue--

Okay, fine, he's right. For now. But Stiles knows a few things about getting information out of Derek. He'll have his answer eventually. In the spirit of holiday giving.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bird! It's a plane! It's [tumblr](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
